It's kind of like photographs of Sasquach, the hominid creature said to live in the forests of the Pacific Northwest. There are only blurred images that might show the animal, or maybe just where the animal had seen. Fleeting moments that hint of something that may, or may not have been.
There is a beer koozie on the table outside, an image of a pirate on one side and a built in beer opener on the other. There are burned out torches in the garden, plastic glasses with dried red wine on the lawn.
I remember a lot of laughter, people arriving in summer clothes carrying chips, cakes and bottles of wine. There were kids running in circles and a dog or two sometimes in the chase. Friends old and new. A mixture of Delta blues, zydeco and southern rock from the seventies on the stereo. If you are having crawfish you gotta have a little Buckwheat Zydeco mixed in.
I never get photographs of a crawfish boil. I always intend to do so, but then I've got the big oven mitts on to handle the big pot of boiling water and spices. Or a beer in one hand and a plate of crawfish in the other. Or I'm explaining to someone how to peel a crawfish, or just trying to keep track of time so that the mudbugs are steamed by their own heat in a cooler with a layer of spices thrown in to get the flavor just right.
So like Bigfoot, I took a few shots of what might have been. Something must have happened. The beer, the wine, two side of salmon and twenty pounds of crawfish couldn't just vanish into thin air. Or could it?